


Recall

by lolanbq



Series: Family Matters [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Other, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-01-11 13:42:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 22,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolanbq/pseuds/lolanbq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is some important news that will change the Watson-Holmes Family forever</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. News

John sat by himself on the couch in the empty flat. Sherlock was off running about on a case for Lestrade and John had had a meeting. John's meeting was over and odds are the case was solved. The lonely man on the couch didn't feel any better.

The tell tale signs of feet thumping on the stairs already told John that the case was solved and the culprit brilliant. But right now even Sherlock's face all lighted up with exertion and excitement could not lift the weight on John's shoulders.

"John it was brilliant. A toothpick, all of it! Done with-" Sherlock stopped abruptly staring at the defeated grey colouring of his face. "What happened? What did they say?"

Sherlock took a seat on the coffee table directly in front of John and clasped his hands over the weary doctors. John couldn't meet his eyes.

"John, please tell me." The pleading from Sherlock broke John and he cried as Sherlock pulled him close.

"They said I'm better." John said weakly as he clutched Sherlock, "better and ready to go back." The last part was whispered. Sherlock took in a breath.

"No, they can't do that." Sherlock was shocked, John being sent back was an option, but not an actual option, as in they didn't think it would happen. "What are we to tell Andrew?"

"The truth."

"Of course tell him that his father is going back to Afghanistan and might not come back?!" Sherlock was on the other side of the room by that point.

"He is old enough to know. And what would you tell him? Your Dad went to visit your Aunt Harry he may or may not come back he could have abandoned us?" John stood in front of the detective. "I would rather the truth."

"Fine." John pulled Sherlock close and ran his fingers through the dark curls, "When do you leave?"

"A month." John said into his partner's neck where he replaced the words with kisses.

"Dad, Father, I'm home!" Andrew called as he entered the flat. John was in the kitchen making dinner while Sherlock was reading through case files at his desk.

"Andrew, your home early. I thought you had football practice today." John said as he added more spices to the pasta sauce.

"Got canceled and not a total loss." Andrew snuck up stairs hoping that Sherlock would miss all the tell tale signs that he had skipped practice today to hang out with friends.

"He skipped." Sherlock added as he snapped a file closed with finality.

"Even I could tell that, Sherlock." John replied as he set plates on the table, "When are we going to tell him?"

"Soon, if you want." John nodded as Sherlock kept his eyes firmly placed on his key board.

"Tell me what?" Andrew called as he entered the room grabbing a piece of garlic bread of the plate.

"Hey! Wait for dinner, you!" John chuckled as he smacked their son's hand, making him drop the piece of bread.

"Your Dad is being called back to Afghanistan." Sherlock said cooly from the door way leading to the living room.

"Hahaha, don't joke about that." Andrew said plopping into a seat, "We all know that is an actual possibility. When is your meeting with them anyway? It's soon right?"

Sherlock and John glance at each other, Andrew hadn't remembered that the meeting had already taken place. They didn't know how to tell him now. Andrew had been living with them for a while, a few years now, they celebrated him coming into their small family it like a was birthday. He had no where to go after his parents' murder and John refused to let the poor boy go into the orphanages, to be left at the cruel hands of the system. So they did the only "logical" thing, in Sherlock's words, and adopted him. Three years they had had a great time as a new family, Sherlock had gotten the hang of help Andrew with "useless" school subjects, even astronomy. Though, Sherlock sometimes ran around at random times of day, John had cut back on that and gotten a steady job at the local clinic so he could be there for Andrew, their adopted son and best decision of their lives. Soon Afghanistan was going to ruin it, tear them apart and leave them as two. They would be strong for him, he knew they would, but John knew Sherlock was going to get hit harder than anyone and it was Sherlock's reaction that scared John the most.

"Yeah, it's soon, Drew." John said quietly as he turned away from them to spoon pasta into a bowl.

"No, John, you wanted to tell him the truth. Telling him anything else now would be lying. Just tell him!" Sherlock ended in a yell. Andrew flinched slightly at the table, Sherlock's rants were fearsome indeed.

"What is Father talking about, Dad?" Andrew spoke from the table quietly as he kept his eyes fixed resolutely on the empty blue plate in front of him his freezing fingers clasped tightly underneath the table.

John left the pasta on the counter as sat carefully at the table across from Andrew Watson-Holmes.

"I met with them today." John whispered is the silent room, everyone held their breath not even Mrs. Hudson down stairs made a sound.

"What did they say?" The words were small, and painfully reminded John of how he sounded when he had first come to live with them, small and afraid.

"They said-" John's voice cracked, "They said I'm fit to go back on active duty."

The tears started to form in Andrew's eyes as he kept his gaze fixed firmly on his bare cold plate.

"When do you leave?" Andrew asked after a silence that seemed to last an eternity. Even Sherlock had lost his angered exterior when facing the crushed dreams of a boy whose soul wish to have a family that could stay together, he thought he was going to have it with John and Sherlock, that was until the news of John's possible departure to a place he may never come back from.

"A month." The word had barely left his mouth before Andrew was gone from the table. Plate crashing to floor, shattering into pieces.

Sherlock flinched at the noise.

John didn't move and his eyes didn't rise.


	2. Good Byes

One Month Later:

Andrew's POV

The air port was crowed with people running around, mostly on phones, mostly business men and women. There were also families with signs waiting near the doors, excited to see loved ones return home to them after long trips away. Pilots raced to flights with rolling bags trying to keep up behind them and flight attendants strutted the moving floors as any model would work the catwalk, perfectly balanced from experience on shifty planes. Children ran into gift shops grabbing candy and stuffed animals looking towards tired moms, pleading for their way, and crying when the puppy dog face fails. Travelers with large head phones wait in lines for sustenance after refusing to eat what the airline passes for food, cause really, what's up with that?

To Andrew the white and light blue walls were careless, unforgiving, and sterol, reminding him too much of the hospital he had been kept in after he had lost his parents. That and he could still smell the cleaning supplies in the air as the bathrooms were cleaned when least used in the middle of the night as weary travelers slept in chairs as they waited for 1 AM flights to who-knows-where.

He walked in the middle of Dad and Father, eyes fixed to the ground as they walked to get Dad checked in at the desk.

"Good Morning, sir." the Lady behind the desk was too cheery for this early on a Monday, "Visa, please." Her kind tone was making Andrew want to cry all over again, which was not cool for a 15 year old guy, "Thank you, Captain Watson, your plane boards Gate 87C in 4 hours. You can put your checked luggage with the men over to your left." Her eyes met his, "Thank you for your service."

Dad nodded, like he was suppose to, as he grabbed his army issue green and tan camouflage duffel bag off the speckled white linoleum floor with dirt forgotten by brooms in the cracks.

And they walked away to find the closest open cafe where they could wait until the last possible to say good-bye to a beloved Dad and Husband.

Even after a month of preparations Andrew couldn't believe that the month had passed, though he had felt the tension every day during the wait to now, this moment. When John Watson, the man he came to call Dad, would be leaving for Aphganistan. Very soon, no more days to put this off, Andrew was down to hours.

"Andrew?" Dad called softly, "Did you want anything to snack on while we wait?" Andrew had zoned out thinking about his Dad's departure that he hadn't noticed where they were ordering from the empty cafe they had found. Andrew shook his head unable to speak without crying and unable to eat without breaking down.

Father had moved to look at a stand of coffees, Andrew knew that he was taking it worse. Sometimes when they thought Andrew had gone to bed he would sneak down the stairs and watch them. In a totally non-creepy sorta way. It was just nice to see his new parents so happy, just like his original parents. Always smiling, even in private, and always real smiles because "the eyes crinkle at the outside edges and makes you squint, while fake smiles don't", as Father always reminded him.

"Sir, your tea is ready and would you like a pastry?" The barista behind the counter handed Dad a steaming cup of Earl Grey, Andrew knew this to be his favourite tea in any situation.

"Ah, thank you." John said taking the pale cream styrofoam cup with a bumpy cardboard sleeve, "No, thank you, I think we are good."

"It's on the house, sir, I insist." The barista gave a small smile. John smiled back and pointed to one of the honey drizzled croissants with chocolate on the inside, Andrew knew these were Father's favourite desserts that Dad only got on very special occasions. This made him look away as he once again had to fight the emotions wanting to break through his thin barrier of cool-calm-and-collected and a sobbing mess in his Dad's arms.

"Drew, come on, your Father found us a nice table by the window." From this "nice table by the window" the three of them had the perfect view of all the planes entering and exiting the docking areas, that is not what Andrew thought of as a wonderful table, "Sherlock, I got you something to eat." Father stared resolutely out the window by the nice table, "Look I hope you know you have not fooled me, I know you have not been eating."

Eating. Always a sensitive topic in the Watson-Holmes House Hold, Father didn't always enjoy eating, but Dad always made him choke something down, eventually. Andrew caught a quick glance of the face behind the black crazy curls, the eyes were ringed red and the cheeks were wet, Father had been crying this entire time and Andrew hadn't noticed.

Dad slipped his arm around Father's shoulders and kissed his neck, making Father flinch and cave in on himself. Dad kept his composure as he held Father close.

"Please, Sherlock, please eat this." Dad whispered softly in Father's ear, Andrew looked down at his frozen fingers clenched together in his lap, he felt as though he were intruding, "Thank you." Andrew looked up to see Father taking small bites of honey cover pastry filled with chocolate.

"So, Andrew, you have your football match this Friday. Your Father promised to send me footage of you starting off." Dad's face was so bright as he talked about a game he wasn't going to, but he made it sound as though he were only leaving for a few days, he couldn't tell if this made him feel better or worse about the situation they were in.

"Yeah," Andrew said playing along, he knew Father needed this as well, "I get to start forward this game after Richie messed up so badly last time." He gave a chuckle to go with it, though it sounded a little hallow, but Dad took it and ran.

"I remember that!" Chuckling louder, "So lost in the crowd of players that he shot it into your own goal!" Andrew joined him in laughter, because now it was funny, when he had his Dad with him to laugh at all the dumb plays that the pompous Richard Thalus had played thinking he was king of all.

"That child needs to just tell his parents he hates the game." A deep voice scoffed, Andrew stopped laughing to stare at his Father, it was the first time in several days he had talked, Dad was unfazed and kept chuckling, "Though even that mess could have been prevented by a three year old. If they had put you in your team would have won that game. Not only that, but if they had changed their tactic in the third quarter to be more offensive rather than defensive you would have gotten more goals, their goalie was terrible."

"You were at that game?" Andrew asked quietly, he had never seen his Father at any of his matches.

"Of course." Father said simply looking at him giving him a small smile. Dad had stopped laughing and looked at them both with a proud smile gracing his face.

"John!" A voice broke through their family moment, "John! I'm glad I caught you before you left."

The trio looked to see Detective Inspector Lestrade, or Uncle Lestrade the family friend.

"Greg, good of you to come. Your alone I figure?" Dad didn't lose any of his mirth.

"Actually no." Uncle Lestrade looked over his shoulder as Ms. Donovan walked to the table, "Anderson couldn't make it, he is actually writing reports," Father snorted, "to the best of my knowledge." Dad chuckled and Ms. Donovan kept her glare in check since Dad was leaving soon.

"Well, anyway, you are both just in time it seems that my plane is leaving soon," Dad said glancing at his watch, Andrew double checked his and is was time for Dad to leave.

"We'll wake with you to your gate," Uncle Lestrade offered as he picked up Dad's army regulated backpack, Dad smiled in thanks as he grabbed Father's hand, then reaching over for Andrew's.

"Alright, you two, I feel as though I need to restate the rules of the flat while I am gone. 1) Do not stay up too late, I know you both think you are night owls, but you always regret it in the morning," Dad put his arm around Andrew's shoulders and Father's waist pulling them both closer, "2) No organs in the appliances, please, food is kept in there! 3) Sherlock, please do less running around, you have been wonderful with changing the past three years, but this is something else entirely," Dad rested his head on Father's shoulder, "and 4) No parties! Mrs. Hudson would have a fit!" Dad said this jokingly and it worked making the three of them laugh as Uncle Lestrade and Ms. Donovan followed behind.

They stopped outside the security check to Terminal C, suddenly it seemed very daunting.

They stared at it for a moment.

"Well," Dad said softly breaking the silence with a knife, "this is me."

He let both of them go so he could face them properly. He looked to Andrew first pulling him into a tight hug.

"I love you, Drew, and you are going to be fine and do wonderful things while I'm gone, okay?" Dad kissed the top of his head, then gazed down at his face for a moment before letting go.

Next he took Father into his arms. Hugging him so tight Andrew thought Father was going to break in half. When Dad finally removed his face from Father's neck they kissed softly on the lips. Now Andrew could see Father crying now.

"Sherlock, you are going to do a great job while I'm gone." Dad said pulling his face away, tears trailing down his face as well, "You are going to be a wonderful parent without me and when I come back we are going to be inseparable; you, me, and Andrew. Got that?" Father nodded. Dad pulled him close and whispered, "I love you, Sherlock, always remember that, okay." Father nodded dumbly again tears falling freely.

Dad stood on his tip-toes to kiss Father's forehead and moved to shake Ms. Donovan's hand, nodding to her, then moving to Uncle Lestrade.

"Lestrade, don't give Sherlock anything too dangerous, please, and look after them they can be a handful sometimes." Dad theatrically rolled his eyes earning a chuckle from Uncle Lestrade.

Dad nodded to them and taking his backpack from Uncle Lestrade, left to enter the Security Check Point.

The four of them stayed until Dad could no longer be seen, Father held me close the entire time.


	3. Dear Dad

Dear Dad,

 

I miss you Dad! Very much so. Can't say that things up here are any different, Father is still blowing things up and Mrs. Hudson is still upset, though she has stopped her threats of kicking us out of the flat; I think that this is because you left. It really is a funny story.

"Father, I'm home!" Andrew set down his back pack and football bags to lay gingerly on the couch. The practice that day had been grueling and Andrew ached everywhere, even in places he didn't know he had, but that wasn't his main concern right now, "What's that smell?" Andrew shifted his head to look over to the kitchen door, that was when he saw the smoke, "Father!" Adrenaline pumped as he jumped of the couch and to the smokey haze that had become of the eating area.

Once in the other room coughing could be heard.

"Andrew stay in the other room!" It was of course too late for that, but the thought was nice.

"Father, what are you doing in here? Dad said no experiments while he is gone!" Andrew took in the burnt mess on the stove and-...and the vegetables on the table?, "Father, where you trying to cook?" Sherlock's cheeks flared red with embarrassment. He turned away facing the counter.

"Your dad made it seem so simple." The sadness in his voice was so obvious it made Andrew keep quiet.

The Silence Continued.

"Why don't we go to that Chinese place that's open all the time?" Andrew knew that this is where Dad and Father went after their first case together. Sherlock appreciated concern being shown to him by his son.

"That sounds nice." The words were weak, but they were true.

So it was nice in his "Sherlock Way" that you talk about sometimes, but as far as I know that has been the ONLY reason the kitchen has been in danger. School has been going just fine just so you know. Some how word has gotten around school that you have gone off to war. Then following it was the fact that I have two dads. Of course what followed that was that I had parents who were killed. I don't know what I was expecting, sympathy more so than the odd looks and, I will admit, slight taunting. Father says to ignore and that all those who make fun of me are too much like Mr. Anderson to understand and display empathy.

"Hey, Andrew!" Carter the Imbecile called as Andrew trudged down the sidewalk try with every fiber of his being to ignore the coming onslaught of taunts, "I heard your faggot dad got sent back to Afganistan."

"Yeah, everyone knows that by now where have you been? Hiding under a rock?" The words flew from his mouth before he could check them. Father was always telling him not to talk back to bullies, but when they were being dumb it was hard not to throw one their way.

"Well, at least mine is just a rock and not the three grave stones you can hide under." The smug look on Carter's face showed that that was the comment he was expecting a punch aimed at him. But Andrew knew better, words were trivial compared to bruises.

"Two, actually, and I don't hide under them much to dark to read there. Carter leave me alone." Andrew's words were ignored as Carter the Imbecile kept going.

"Yeah, I heard that your parents killed themselves cause they couldn't take you anymore. Then to add insult to injury you get lumped with two queers? Just isn't right."

Andrew kept walking keeping his pace even and his face blank.

"Yeah, your only sane parent got sent off to die. Now you are left with that creeper who likes boys. Does he-"

"I know what you are trying to imply and it is not true. So, please, just leave me alone."

The shove was unexpected and sent Andrew sprawling to the ground.

"What have I told you about interrupting me? Don't do it!" The sentence was followed by a kick to the stomach. Luckily that was all, Carter left with the smug look he came with.

Mrs. Hudson misses you lots I think she has now become our house keeper. Though sometimes when I'm walking up the stairs I think I hear her crying, but I can't be sure about that.

Andrew had been late to coming home since he had been studying in the library at school for his math test. He was later then he was suppose to be and even though he had a good reason Mrs. Hudson and Father would still be worried.

The wind outside was harsh and it was starting to sprinkle so Andrew waited in the foyer to dry his shoes off before venturing any further into the house, but that was when he heard it. A sniffling coming from Mrs. Hudson's apartment.

"Mrs. Hudson?" Sniffling ends and a red eyed woman comes to the door.

"Hamish you are late, you know how your Father worries about you." Andrew smiled at her attempts to cover her own sorrow for his sake.

"I know, I had to study for a math test. Can't let my grades slip or I can't play football." Andrew skipped over the fact that she called him Hamish, she did that sometimes, though more often since Dad left.

"Yes, yes of course. Your Father is at the Scotland Yard, but I made some stew and left it on the stove up stairs for you."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." Andrew kissed her cheek and made his way up the stairs to enjoy the stew she lovingly made for him.

Sometimes I think I also hear Father cry, when he forgets I'm home or when he is asleep in your room. He likes to pretend it doesn't happen and I follow along, but we both know it happens. In case you were worrying Father has not missed one game or come home overly injured, a few bruises, but nothing more.

Who in their right mind would add letters to math? That is what Andrew wanted to know, not what 'x' equaled.

"Math needs to grow up and solve it's own problems." the frustrated boy muttered to himself as he rhythmically tapped his pencil against the cluttered table top, but that's when he heard it. The sniffling was always a dead give away that Father had had a really exciting case that day, when normally he would have been jumping off the walls talking not stop, while Dad finally got him to eat something. Now exciting cases just brutally reminded him of his loss.

"Father?" He straightened up and pulled himself together in time to face Andrew, "You finished the case."

It wasn't a question, it was a clean cut statement.

"Yes, I did." He cleared his throat of the pain residing there, "It was the baker, he was hiding the crack in the sugar sacks."

Father had almost not gotten this case since it dealt with drugs and he was at a lower point in his life without Dad, but Uncle Lestrade was more concerned about Father without a case to occupy his mind than the thought that a drug filled case would set him back on the track of self destruction. Although Andrew wasn't sure if Uncle Lestrade knew that as much as the cases helped, they also hurt the Heart Sick Great Detective.

Andrew stood and pulled a plate out of the oven, over time he had gotten very good at guessing when Father would finish a case and finally eat, he would sometimes make bets with Dad, and set the plate on the only clear spot on the table top.

"I made you some dinner, now that you aren't busy," Andrew didn't sit as he waited for his Father to make the first move, "And you are going to eat it," Father opened his mouth as if to argue, but Andrew beat him to it, "I don't want to hear it you are going to eat this plate of food." He used the voice he heard Dad use multiple times, that voice he 'learned in the military' he called it when it left no room for questioning.

Father smiled sadly as he took the seat at the table and began to eat slowly. Only when he was eating more vigorously did he finally sit down to finish his math homework.

And that, Dad, is and up date of everything at home. How is everything on your end? I hope you are staying safe. Father and I can't wait for you to come home so we can be a family again. I know he is doing his best, but he just seems a little lost sometimes. I think he is just lost without you.

Lots of Love,

Andrew Watson-Holmes


	4. Hello Son

Dear Andrew,

It is so good to hear from you, I know it has been a while since you have sent your letter and I have responded, but things are a little tricky here and sometimes it's hard for the post to get to us.

"Smyth, is the post coming in today?" John had just gotten out 8 hours of surgery on men from everything from bullet wounds from enemies to fevers from lack of water.

"Not today, WH, we are moving out tonight and can't have our current position given away, we need no repeat of that." Smyth shook his head at the reminder of the disaster that was there last close encounter when the message hadn't gotten to the mail deliverers to not come, their arrival lead to their location being reviled to the spies hiding in the hills. It had messy and John had worked his longest hours that night.

"Of course, thanks, Smyth." John didn't try to hide the disappointment from his face, Sherlock had always told him he was a bad liar anyway, which was funny since he could lie when he needed to.

"What are you waiting on, WH?" Russell, another medic, inferior to John, asked as he started to clean the blood off his hands form his equally long and grueling shift.

"A letter," Russell rolled his eyes at the obvious statement, "from Andrew, and possibly Sherlock given he is still alive and hasn't starved himself in the name of science."

The guys around him quieted, giving John a moment to collect his thoughts and emotions for his family. Most of the guys there only had girlfriends at most, a couple were married, but not for too long and with no kids.

"Hey, WH, after this next move we get internet." John perked up at Smyth's words, "I'll make sure you are first on the list."

John thanked him and made his way to the bunk that he shared with Russell.

I hope your Father is eating and sleeping properly, if he isn't try to slip some sleeping medicine into his tea or food and that will knock him out like a light; then you will finally have some peace and quiet. How is every one? I am sure Mrs. Hudson has been hovering more than your Father would like, and when she does start to get a bit down have her sit in her favorite chair, cover her with that quilt you got her, and hand her a cup of tea. That should do the trick.

You Father on the other hand is a little more complicated to calm since he tries to insist that he is fine in all meanings of the word, which you and I both know he is not. When he gets to his absolute worse tell him to look underneath my side of our bed, what I have left there might help.

"WH! WH, we are heading out soon, you got to wake up!" Russell came through the tent flap with a giant smile on his face as he plopped down onto his cot.

"What are you so chipper about?" John asked sleepily as he forced himself to sit up and start lacing up his boots.

"Oh, nothing, nothing at all. What is there to be happy about only that our look through this far out area is over and we get to go back to a some-what civilization, well as civilized as it can be with those loons out there." John stood and stretched his back out after laying on the hard mattress, "Come on, mate, let's go! Your pack is already in the truck, yeah?"

John nodded that it was as he started to finally wake up.

"Let's get back to indoor plumbing." John exited the tent with Russell right on his tail.

When they had made their way to the trucks ready to take them back to base there was a crowd waiting around the open doors.

"What's the wait for? Usually you guys are already belted in and ready to go, what's going on?"

Smyth sat on the roof of the truck staring at something in his hand.

"We seem to have a special delivery," Smyth looked up and fixed his eyes on John, "for a Mr. John Watson-Holmes, from a one and only Mr. Andrew Watson-Holmes." Shock and disbelief were the first two emotions to pepper John's face, followed by pure delight.

"But, how? Smyth, you said that we wouldn't get post until we got back to base?" John gently took the letter from Smyth as though it were made of gold bejeweled with all the riches of the Royal vaults.

"Well, it was dropped off in a near by town, and we needed a guide so they sent the letter with him." Smyth's smile was a cross between proud and smug. John had to embarrassingly blink away the tears forming in his eye, "Oh, come on, WH, don't go all soft on us!"

"In my village, it is encouraged that the man have emotions when thinking about his family, for it is the most important thing in life." The man who spoke stepped forward and looked approvingly at John's misty eyes, "John, it is good to see you again."

"Hadi Harun, what are you doing here? I thought you stopped to have some peace with your own family." John smiled and embraced his friend from his first tour.

"That had been my idea, but I could not stand to see the people around me suffer and so nothing to help in any way possible. I guess you could say I came out of retirement." Hadi chuckled and John joined in on the mirth.

"Well, I had no idea that you two knew each other." Smyth hopped down from the truck roof and landed on the dry earth sending up a dust cloud.

"He actually saved my life when I was shot." John put an affectionate arm around Hadi's shoulders, he returned the gesture.

"No, my friend, you saved mine. I was the one you were operating on when you were shot and you did not stop until another one of your men had to take care of you while you took care of me!" They both started laughing at the gruesome story.

"Well, anyway we should head out," Smyth called as he headed to the lead truck, "Hadi and WH, you too are going to be with me. Everyone else to your assigned cars!"

The once relaxed guys jumped to attention and executed their orders like the trained men they were.

"So, John, tell me of your life since you have been away." Hadi started as they both climbed into the tan and dry green truck.

My next trek is going to be more dangerous and since we will be on the move we will not be able to get any mail, what so ever, but if you do write it will be waiting for me when we get back to base. We haven't lost any men so far, which is always a good thing, but we have had a few close calls with those we thought were friendly.

Another bullet wizzed past John's face as he peaked around the corner to see if there were anymore enemies racing down the hill, he fired and one man dropped.

"Russell," John yelled over the pops of bullets and the screaming of soldiers in two different languages, "Russell! They're heading towards the sick bay! Their planning to take them out, I saw a granade! Take 'em out!"

Russell's face was one of pure consentration as clutched his gun and ran off to protect those who couldn't protect themselves, their usual practical jokester was replaced by a completely focused man who was determined not to let any of his patients die.

John rounded the corner and found Smyth laying on his belly fireing off round after round at the men trying, and failing, to over run their camp site. The medical Doctor kneeled next to him and took up the targets the comanding officer couldn't hit.

"Smyth, I got your six." John growled between fired rounds.

"About time you showed up here, WH," Smyth commented without looking up, "I was starting to think that you only had the heart to pick up the aftermath."

"Never been good at seeing others suffer and sitting by the side lines." That ended the conversation as they continued to target and take out the ambushers.

Only when the last enemy was dead did any of the soldiers start to relax, but it wasn't before long their attentions switched from attack to protect and started helping the injured to the sick bay.

Yes, I was worrying about school, but it's only natural for me too. Just ignore those who give you trouble. I know this sounds cliche, but they are only taking their own faults out on you. Just don't give them the satisfaction of a fight, or the taunts will never end.

Andrew, I almost forgot to mention, though I don't know how, that as soon as we get back to base there will be internet and we can video chat. I know that by your age that you are done growing, but I just want to see you both so badly.

I also need visual proof that the kitchen is indeed intact, not that I don't trust you, but your Father is completely mad.

I hope to see you when I get back!

Love,

Dad


	5. Dear John

Dear John,

I know that most people start letters off this way when the are hoping to leave the person away at war, but that is most deffinatly not the case here.

John, I miss you an excruciating amount. I don't like you being this far away of this long, it reminds me of before- well you know when I'm talking about. It doesn't hurt, I suppose, to say it. To say that this reminds me of that dark time in my life when I had nothing, but drugs, yet everything to prove to my brother, even to Lestrade. Even after I had recovered from the blackest part of my life, nothing was beautiful, it just was, and then there were things to use to my advantage. By this point everyone had assumed that I was less than human, in my emotional range at least, and had given up on trying to make me civil. Though Lestrade had never given up his hope that I would change, I just never did.

Then Mike Stanford introduced you and you were interesting from the very beginning. You thought what I did was fantastic and wonderful, when others just averted their gazes. I know you think I was just daft to the attempts of Molly, but I wasn't. She just isn't my type and, before you, I refused to mix business with pleasure. I just assumed that if I was 'oblivious' long enough she would stop, after a while I didn't have the heart to tell her. God, if Donovan were to read this I would never hear the end of it.

Speaking of the Scotland Yard team, Lestrade continues to give me case after case after case. I believe it is his plan to work hard enough to forget that you aren't here right now, but in reality it only makes me more acutely aware that you are not here next to me. I am also aware that Anderson and Donovan are being nicer to me than usual, which is annoying in itself, I find it rather insulting that they assume I can't cope without you. Yes, it's true that I can't, but there is no reason for them to know that.

It seem that Andrew has taken over your duties of "taking care of me" since everyday he asks me if I have eaten that day or how well I slept the night before. I also spied him rummaging through the medicine cabinet looking for the sleep pills you think I don't know about. He is rather tactlessly trying to slip them into my food, at least you ground them up before trying to feed them to me. I believe he is hoping they dissolve before my food gets to the table. I also must ask you to never put them in my tea, seeing as they make the tea taste like soap.

Just please promise me that you will come home safely and will never leave again.

You will always have my love,

Sherlock Watson

Sherlock glanced down at the letter he had just finished penning and had every want to crumble it up, just like the other ones, but not this one.

This one was going to John.

His John

His blogger

His friend

His husband

Letting out a deep breath he had realized he was holding in, Sherlock picked up the empty envelope slipping the parchment inside. Looking at the closed door Sherlock flushed with embarrassment as he lightly kissed the sealed envelop.

"Really, John," Sherlock whispered into the silence of their shared room, "You seem to have turned me into romantic." A smile graced his pale pink lips.

"Thank you, John."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was harder to write, not because of writer's block, but because Sherlock is such a hard person to portray. Also, sorry it's not that long, but I always thought of Sherlock being a man of few words when it came to expressing himself.
> 
> I would appreciate your feed back on this so I can get an idea if you think I stuck to his character well, since he isn't an OOC.
> 
> Thank you very much


	6. Old Friend

Hadi Harun and John took the back seat of the truck while Smyth took the driver's seat, gunning the engine causing it to roar to life and blow dirt and sand out of the exhaust pipe.

"So, my friend, tell me of your life back in your home land." Hadi angled himself towards John to engage him in conversation of their time apart. It had been years since they had seen each other and it was good to see each other their looks had changed though they both felt that their personalities had not.

"Well, when I got back I found myself a flat mate, Sherlock is his name, and, um, eventually we found that our friendship went a bit deeper than that," John blushed slightly talking about Sherlock, oh god Sherlock, the thought of the lanky dark haired man made him smile involuntarily. Hadi smiled knowingly at John, "We got married and a few years later this boy, Andrew, his parents got killed, it was a case that Sherlock was investigating. So, we adopted him."

"Sherlock, you said? Sherlock Holmes?" Hadi asked curiously over the grinding of the engine and the loud crunching of the dry cracking earth outside underneath the the heavy duty tires of the armored vehicle.

"Yeah, how do you know of him?" John asked confused and slightly concerned at the how well known Sherlock was that a person in Aphganastan knew of him and probably his skills.

"Of, course," Smyth offered from behind the driver's seat sparing them a glance through the rear view mirror, "it's hard not to know of him when his brother is Mycroft, and when you write about him on your blog-"

"You read my blog?" John was not shy about letting the shock and dismay show clearly on his face, he had known that his blog was getting popular, but he had no idea that it had reached the soldiers still on the battle field.

"Yeah, we read it for entertainment, plus it's encouraged to read a former's blog to show support to those who have gone home, though some aren't allowed to read them cause it makes certain people terribly home sick." Smyth nodded to John, "Just a quick question, does Sherlock really not know that the Earth revolves around the sun?"

John burst out laughing and keeps it up until Hadi and Smyth join in too.

"If he ever finds out I said this he will kill me and make it look like an accident," John managed to get out between chuckles and gasps for breath, "but yes! He doesn't think that astronomy is important!"

Their truck continued down the road with the trio continuing their merriment and mirth.

"Hey," Smyth said carefully his attitude sobering up, "What's that?" John leaned forward in his seat to get a better look at the object they were approaching.

Smyth pulled out the walkie talkie connecting them to the other trucks and ordered for them to halt.

"WH, take the controls while I scout the object." Smyth opened the door a crack preparing to climb out of the car.

"Smyth! Stay back, we get these all the time. Get one of the mates from another car to come up and do this. The last thing we need is for you to blow yourself up." Smyth grumbled in agreement as he climbed back in the car and barked the orders into the following trucks.

In the silent atmosphere the three men created the faint slam of an armored door and the thick boots crunching the already minuscule sand particles was heard. Larson, the explosive specialist, stuck his head in the window.

"Well, hello all! I heard we got a possible explosive?" Smyth nodded and pointed to the small cloth item in the middle of the road, "What, that small thing? I mean, sure, but you can go around that."

"We could, but you know for a fact that the never put just one." John commented from the back seat, Smyth nodded in agreement and Larson sighed.

"Alright, let me go get geared up." As Larson left a small dust cloud seemed to rise from the a rock several meters off.

"Smyth," John called to the front seat, "Do you see that? Or is it just me being mad?" He leaned forward again pointing to the cloud.

The realization was like a freezing shower.

The tattered piece of cloth in front of them was not the bomb the should be concerned about, it was the ones planted under their trucks in the dirt.

"We need to get out of here, NOW!" Smyth fumbled with the walkie talkie screaming orders that were possibly recognizable.

"PULL BACK! ALL OF YOU! REVERSE NOW!" Engines could be heard as they were woken from their dormant state, but too late.

The trucks may have been started and ready, but they were not ready for anything, definitely not for the quick flick of a thumb over a big red button.

Sherlock had long since gotten used to the fact that he would have to do the shopping for himself and Andrew, it would be unfair to make Mrs. Hudson do it. So here he was in Tresco doing the shopping he so hated, but now understood the need for. On more than one occasion Andrew had told, and shown, him things that needed to be replaced, but then a case would pop up and Andrew's Father would accidentally delete things from his memory. So the clever boy created a list to keep track of the things that Father could not, which in Sherlock's mind was nothing he could keep track of everything.

A list was made anyway and Sherlock never told Andrew how helpful that stupid list really was.

So here Sherlock was putting food and other tedious items in their proper places in the kitchen that Sherlock made sure to keep clean so Andrew could do his homework, a condition John made him agree to, and so that they could eat dinner together, another condition John made. Which was enjoyable to say the least Andrew cooked, and was magnificent at it, and his Father would stop what he was doing, no matter where he was in the case, unless the VERY end, or Andrew would threaten to call Dad, and they would eat together. It was how Andrew Watson-Holmes was ensured that his Father ate on a regular basis. Sometimes Mrs. Hudson would join them and it would be like a dinner with a real family, because not one of them would comment about how there was always an empty plate at the end of the table, plate void of food, cup dry of drink, and chair empty of an occupant.

Andrew was home not long later and started to make dinner, knowing that his Father was a terrible cook, tonight he was going to make lasagna, his favorite. Father was at his desk filing through case files Lestrade had dropped off earlier in the week.

There was a knock on the front door and a creak as Mrs. Hudson opened it.

"Oh, hello officer. Can I help you?" Mrs. Hudson's voice wavered fearing the next words out of the official's mouth.

"I must speak with Mr. Watson-Holmes, is he at home?" Andrew looked over at his Father siting at the desk filing through case files Lestrade had dropped off, but now he was stone still, except the tremor of his hand.

"Yes," She whispered back, "he is right up stairs."

The tremor of Father's hand only got worse as the footsteps got closer. He stood and made his way to the door, slowly and eyes down cast, so when the steps finally stopped he was there to open the door and invite them inside.

Andrew remained in the kitchen with of a pan of browning hamburger on the stove mentally comparing the slow steps up the stairs to the timed beats of an executioner's drum and the crowd waiting for the blade to drop.

"Mr. Watson-Holmes, I do not enjoy these visits-"

"Just say it." Sherlock whispered, "Just hurry up and tell me. Is he injured, or is he dead?" Father did not raise his eyes to meet the officer's, as he would usually have done to demand answers, but this was personal, this hit his heart and he wanted no one to see that.

"Mr. Watson-Holmes, I am sad to say that Doctor John Watson-Holmes died in action."

Andrew closed his eyes and set the spatula down on the counter not caring about the oil getting on the icy surface. He heard the light steps and the slam of a door, Father had retreated to his room to grieve alone, but grieving wasn't enough for Andrew, he needed answers.

"Excuse me, sir," Andrew called as he exited the kitchen not giving a thought to the stove that was still cooking, "How did he die? My Dad, how did he die?"

The officer's eyes softened at seeing Andrew, but he didn't want sympathy he wanted to know!

"I'm sorry, I don't know and if I did I would not be able to disclose that to you." The officer bowed his head and turned to leave, but that is not what Andrew had in mind for him.

"That's not good enough for me. I want to know how my Dad lost his life. I want you to tell me why I will never see him again and the exact reason I will not be video chatting with him next week!" When tears started escaping his eye, he wouldn't be able to tell you, but all he knew was that he was going to get what he wanted.

The officer stood with his hand on the door nob, he stopped and turned to face Andrew and the sitting sobbing mess of Mrs. Hudson.

"He was returning to base from an outpost. The caravan had stopped to check on a possible explosive on the road, they did not know that there were other bombs planted in the road that were triggered when they stopped. There were no survivors."

"When does his body come home?" Mrs. Hudson managed out through her quieting sobs.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

"There was nothing left of bodies, just dog tags. I'm sorry for your loss." The officer escaped the solemn silence that followed his explanation and left into the noisy world of London.


	7. Dear Sherlock

It was a dark day in the Watson-Holmes house. Sherlock was in his room not knowing what to do with himself. His John, was dead. Blown to bits by explosives, and he hadn't been there. Sherlock had made his promise to be there for his husband, always. And he had let John down.

There was a knock at his bedroom door.

It was locked, as much as Sherlock had tried to be there for Andrew there was nothing he could do now. Sherlock understood that he had to do his own mourning before he helped Andrew through his own. It was just taking a very long time to get through all the emotional turmoil raging through his mind and his heart.

His John.

His John, who loved tea in the morning, toast and jam while reading the paper and stealing glances at a sleeping Sherlock when he thought that the curly haired man was asleep.

His John, who loved the city and the chases and as much as he pretended to hate the aftermath of the cases, Sherlock knew he loved that too, he patching up of all the scratches, scrapes, and bruises. Forcing food down Sherlock's throat and then later forcing him to sleep.

His John, who always slept on the left side of the bed to make sure that Sherlock didn't sneak off in the middle of the night to do experiments. With John there there was no reason to not sleep. Sherlock would always drape his long limbs over John's sturdier frame and John would hold him close, chuckle, and complain that Sherlock was going to suffocate him. And that was where they would stay until morning's light woke John up, and then John forced them both out of bed.

There was another knock at the door.

"Father," Andrew said meekly from the other side of the door. Sherlock opened his eyes and dragged himself from the bed. The trek was not very far since he was occupying John's side, or what was John's side, it still had his sent, his essence.

He opened the door and let his red rimmed eyes fall onto his son in every way, but blood.

"I-I brought you some lasagna, Father," Andrew met his Father's eyes red matched red, slumped shoulders mirrored the other. Father smiled and gestured for Andrew to enter the room. They both climbed onto the bed, Sherlock on the left and Andrew on the right, and feasted on a warm plate of a delicious reminder what was waiting for him on the other side of the door.

Andrew handed over a fork and they both dug into food with a ferocity that surprised only one of them. There in the bed was where they stayed until the morning woke Andrew up, and Andrew forced his Father out of bed.

"Father, I have something to tell you," Andrew stood at the door looking over his shoulder at his Father now standing by the window looking, "Dad left you a letter under his side of the bed. He said to only tell you about it when I thought you really needed it. I think you could use it now." Andrew smiled at his Father bathed in the warming light of the sun and left.

As soon as the door was closed Sherlock pounced to John's side of the bed, what once was John's side, and sure enough there under mattress were three envelopes. One of the envelopes was labeled "Home Soon", a second labeled "Injured", and a third labeled "Neither".

Sherlock carefully picked up the envelope labeled "Neither" and carefully broke the seal.

Dear Sherlock,

I pray to God that this is not the letter you pick up from under the bed. I wrote three of these knowing you would need a little something to hang onto until I get back. This one was written last, it was the most difficult to pen since it had the unfathomable concept of never seeing you again. I couldn't think about it, to me there is nothing worse then never watching you sleep again or never again listening to your crazy mind as your brain speeds ahead of your mouth. I couldn't think of a world where we weren't together or that we weren't going to be reunited soon.

If you are reading this letter the worst I feared has happened and you live in a world I couldn't dream of, us being separated for the rest of your life. No more tea and toast in bed, no more running through the streets of London, and no more yelling at the television when you try to prove a sitcom wrong. But most of all no more us lying in bed mumbling a half-asleep conversation about crumpets and umbrellas, don't try to deny that this actually happened I know you remember it.

I suppose it only seems fitting that the war brought us together so now it is the war taking us apart again. It hardly seems fair, but who am I to question fate, though I know you would gladly run the debate. I don't know how long it has been since I have been home and I don't know how long it has been since you have seen me, I'm sure that I am what you remember as a husband, only with a gun, fine a larger gun than I had.

I just have one request of you if it does turn out that I am deceased. Please don't lose yourself in my death. My life may be over now, but yours is nowhere near the end. You still have a brilliant life to lead and cases to salve and people to prove wrong, especially Anderson and Donovan. Keep taking the cases and think of me fondly when you finish them with that flourish you always do.

I, John Hamish Watson-Holmes, have loved you, Sherlock Scott Watson-Holmes, until the very moment I died and I can promise you that the love I felt carried on into death and through into my next life.

Live the life you have left, Love, and remember me.

Yours in Eternity,

John Hamish Watson-Holmes


	8. Breathe

It was hot and there was fire.

It was dark, but he hurt.

The explosion made it hard to hear, hard to move, hard to breath. Everything hurt breathing, moving his eyes under closed lids, and most of all thinking.

His cognitive process was cut to a minimum very few thoughts were allowed to enter his cerebral cortex, the darkness, the filthy air, the dry grit beneath his fingers and caked under his neatly trimmed nails.

Dry

Hot

Pain

BREATHE

A heavy gasp was heard in the quiet cave that was the hideout of the enemy.

The man knew better than to call out, knew better than to cry for the gladness that he was alive, was smart enough to know not to yell for the water that would stop the burning sensation in his throat.

They had other ideas.

"So you awaken." A man walks into view with a water in a rusty bucket, "I was wondering if you were not dead!" He laughed and threw the water onto the figure.

The injured soldier cried out in pain as the water hit raw tender flesh and carried away drying blood down the unnatural canals formed by the explosion.

"What-What do you want?" He hated to stutter, but his throat burned at any use and if the air had caused pain then actually speaking caused pure agony, not aided by the screaming.

"Do not try to speak, you are obviously in no condition to do so."

"Water." The injured man choked out as he rested his head against the rough stone wall.

"Did you miss the water you already got? Hard to believe that with the ruckus you put up." The enemy laughed and left the man bleeding out and silently scream against the harsh dry sand stone.

Maybe he had died.

Maybe this was Hell

"Lestrade, I know you have a case for me! Three killings in a closed off room with no prints! You know you need me for this so why am I not there?" Sherlock paced the apartment stepping over the coffee table and onto the couch.

"Because, Sherlock, you need time to gather yourself. I knew it was a bad idea before, but now I am sure that I am not going to be handing you anything!" Lestrade's voice was strained with the stress of the case and the pressure the public was putting on him to find the killer, "Look, I am so sorry about John-"

"Don't you dare say that." Sherlock cut him off, "Don't you give your condolences like some fan! Give me the case or let people keep dying!"

"Sherlock, what is this about? The case or your inability to cope? Because if it is the later than I am NOT going to give it to you!" Lestrade passed on the other end of the line and heaved a breath, "I consider you a friend even if you don't consider me one of yours and I am begging you to take some time to-recover before you come to me for a case."

Sherlock took a deep breath that seemed to cleanse his soul and clear his head.

"Greg, John left me a letter," He paused collecting the pieces of his fractured heart, "he told me to not stop taking cases just because he was-"

"If you are lying to me, Sherlock, may God help you." He paused for several moments, "Fine, you get this case out of my respect for John. I would ask for the letter as proof, but I won't intrude. Get down here and I'll read you in."

"Greg," Sherlock said quietly, "Thank you."

Sherlock hung up the phone and grabbed his coat running down the stairs to go and save people's lives.

Andrew had to go back to school, it had been a week and according to the school that was a long enough period of mourning and required him to return to classes.

So here he was, in the corner he always occupied before the start of classes, a week after he had lost his third parent.

"You don't have very good luck with parents do you?" Carter the Imbecile came up to Andrew, head on, leaving him nowhere to go. "I mean you've lost two dads and a mum! At this rate you are going to be an orphan again!"

Carter started laughing and so did his followers, but they received glares from people who would not have usually noticed the taunting. Andrew noticed this.

Sherlock Time

"I'd be careful if I were you, Carter." Andrew kept his eyes down cast and voice soft, but made sure his words carried to the bullies ears.

"Why is that, Little Orphan Andrew?" He earned snickers this time, "Are you gonna hurt me?" This got him laughter the rolled from the group's bellies, but it also claimed the attention of by standers.

"Look around you," Andrew moved his eyes to the left and to the right, Carter's eyes followed, "A crowd is forming. Teachers might wonder or a student might stand up to you."

"Why should that worry me? No one would dare and the teachers all love me. All the more people to laugh at you!" Carter gestured around him, but his sight only stretched to his own people's smiling faces and not the grim and disgusted looks from the students beyond. A student ran away from the scene and into the school building, "Little Orphan Andrew all alone in a corner. Who will-"

"Hey, leave him alone!" A girl called out to the bully, she took a step forward and leveled his gaze.

"What's this, Andrew? Need a girl to protect you?" Carter laughed and turned his attention the her, "Do you know who he is?"

"No." The girl responded evenly not moving as the mass of flesh took timed steps towards her.

"Then leave, girl," Carter gave her a once over before redirecting his attention to the once huddled, now standing, figure of Andrew, "Where was I?"

"Talking to me, if I recall, and my name isn't 'girl' it's Chloe."

Now there was a stand off between the two, a short red head girl and a tall muscular guy. Andrew was actually not sure who was going to win.

"Why didn't you call me in before this?" Sherlock asked frustrated as he looked over pictures from each murder, "If I had been there I might have more."

Lestrade's office had been transformed into a whirling tornado of pictures, newspaper clippings, notes scribbled on napkins, and maps marking routes each victim took before their death. Open on his desk were three file folders holding everything you ever wanted to know about the three victims; names, addresses, places of work,even favorite foods.

"You know perfectly well why I didn't call you in." Lesrtade scowled as his aching eyes scoured the same pieces of paper for what felt like the hundredth time. "You and Andrew needed time as a family to mourn and I wasn't going to interrupt that with a case! By the way, where is Andrew, surely not at home all alone?" Sherlock made a noise in the back of his throat.

"No, the school board deemed that after only a week he was in an emotionally fit state to come back to school." The concerned father sat down and looked at his hands, "John's funeral won't be for another month or two, and then what's the point? There's nothing to bury except half melted dog tags."

Sherlock bit his lip as his tear ducts betrayed him and let a tear fall. God he hated this, this emotional state he had been thrown into. He was Sherlock Holmes! Emotions were for other people, the normal people! As much as Sherlock hated his showing of weakness he couldn't hate who caused it, or-he had to go before he humiliated himself farther.

Quickly standing and wiping away the stray tear Sherlock moved to leave, mumbling something along the lines of calling him later, but Lestrade stopped him and sat him down.

"You are not going anywhere until you talk to me, Sherlock," Lestrade stood in front of the door, arms crossed, "I tried to let you take care of yourself in your own 'Sherlock Way', but now I'm thinking that I was mad for thinking you could deal with an emotional shock by yourself."

Sherlock glared and made no move to speak.

"Do you have any idea who I am?" Carter laughed in shock of the brave girl before him.

"Not a clue, but I intend to deal with you." Chloe crossed her arms and stared at him as though he were nothing, but a math problem.

"You must be new here." He smiled and held out his hand, "Name's Carter, and to give you a heads up: no one wants to pick a fight with me. I always win."

"How much you want to bet on that?" Were the last words she said before screaming at the top of her lungs, falling down onto the ground, and covering her face with her arms.

Teachers came running at the yelling and the confusion caused by the scrambling crowd.

Andrew stood in his corner admiring Chloe's brilliance; everyone's brain was just going to implant a hit of some sort against the small girl.

One teacher made it to them before any of the others.

"Andrew, did you see what happened? Chloe, it's okay. Come on." The teacher helped her stand and motioned for Andrew to help Chloe get inside, "Carter, I will deal with you later."

Andrew smirked as he helped the "injured" girl.

"Thank you, sir, for helping me."

"Mr. Brook, Mr. Richard Brook. I'm actually a new teacher here in the English Department. Let me help you to my classroom."


	9. Goodbye

One would think you got used to waking up to burning sensations in your, well, everywhere. Nothing didn't hurt.

His legs from the constant sitting and being chained to a floor

His wrist from the rough metal constantly raking against his now sensitive and raw skin

His arm from the explosion

His shoulder from the awkward angle of his hands attached to the wall

"So nice of you to grace us with your consciousness." Then there was the now familiar drenching of water and once again the calling out of pain.

When Sherlock awoke he was warm and contently wrapped in blankets his arms encircling something warm and soft and smelling of John; to Sherlock's sleepy mind it was his husband.

"John, it's probably really late, why are you still in bed?" John never tolerated being held into sleeping more than was needed, because there were things that needed to be done and people that needed help. But Sherlock didn't get an answer from his slumbering husband, "John?"

Sherlock lifted his head to look at his short companion for life, but all he found was a pillow in his arms.

"John," Sherlock stuffed his face into the fabric that smelled faintly of the one he loved, "Please don't be this." he mumbled into the pillow, "don't be dead."

But today was the day.

Today was the day to bury John.

Today was the day to bury what was left of him, his memory; he was allowed to keep the mangled dog tags.

"Father?" Andrew stood at the door still in his pajamas and eyes red, "I don't want to go." Andrew felt foolish crying like he was, and at the age of 15, but this was the occasion.

Sherlock smiled and lifted the blankets for Andrew to lay in bed with him, as if his son were a little boy.

"I'll tell you a secret," Sherlock said quietly, "neither do I, but what would Dad think? If we left him waiting like this!" He tried to raise his son's spirits.

"We'll never know."

but his plan failed. Andrew left the room to go get ready for the funeral.

"So, how did you like Hamlet?" Mr. Brook asked as he casually sat in his teacher's chair.

Andrew sat in the desk stareing at the discarded book in front of him. School had long been let out, but here Andrew was; his Father was on a case and wouldn't be home until late that night, so he had nothing better to do than to sit here with his new English teacher and talk about Shakespeare's play.

"It was fine."

"I thought you would like it, or at least identify with it."

"Father killed by power hungry uncle? Son goes crazy and kills everyone? How would I identify with that?" Andrew's voice was hoarse from dissuse and crying.

"Well, you father was killed in action and the Americans call their government Uncle Sam." Mr. Brook leaned forward to try and get Andrew talking about his distress in a way that could be associated with the curiculum, "I'm sure there is something there that you could look at and-"

"My Father was not killed in action," Drew lowered his voice to a harsh whisper, "my Dad was."

"I'm sorry for the confusion. Can you tell me about your parents? Your Dad or Father. We can forget the play for now. I just want to get to know you so I can help." Mr. Brook leaned forward in his seat to hear every word that Andrew mumbled about his parents, the first and second pair.

Many people had come to the funeral: Molly, Lestrade, Anderson, Donovan, Mrs. Hudson, Mike Stamford, and even Aunt Harry came with Aunt Clara. There were also military friends of Dad who came to grieve over the loss of one damn good doctor; the wives of these man offered help with anything that Father might need.

There were words spoken of bravery and words spoken of sacrifice for the betterment of all.

Father tried to speak, but for once words failed him.

Aunt Harry tried also, but all she was capable of was standing there with a dazed look on her face that portrayed the numbness of unexpected loss.

"I loved him, despite what people might think. I know I didn't make things easy for him, but he was always a brother to me and the only sane one between us."

Father tried again and failed, but the tears streaming down his face spoke volumes.

That was the ceremony, then the guns went off and Andrew was given a folded British flag in memory of his Dad; as if that could bring him back.

Andrew almost wanted to give it back and say "No Thanks, I want nothing more from you.", another part of him wanted to take the flag and burn it when he got home, but Mrs. Hudson would not like the ash.

So he smiled and politely accepted the piece of cloth, red like his Dad's blood, white like the heaven his Dad was now in, and blue like the tears that marked their trial down his face.

"I suppose you have suffered enough there, Captain Smyth, after all this silent waiting you are now in dyer need of a doctor," The man signaled behind him and two other man stepped forward, one of them supported the other, "Doctor, good of you to join us we were just making some lite conversation, but there are more pressing matters. Please feel free to heal your friend here."

There in bloodied uniform stood John Watson-Holmes being supported heavily from another enemy.

"You back stabbing bastard, Hadi, I thought we were friends." That was all he could say before he was shoved toward the deathly injured Captain Smyth.


	10. Looking Up

After John did his best to heal Smyth, he was dragged back to his own section if cave and chained to a rusted, yet sturdy chair.

"I'm sorry I had to cut our conversation short, but, you see, I might need him later so I can't have him dying. Now can I?"

John stared resolutely unblinking unwavering in his rigged up-right position.

"Why. Why do you need him, why me?" He paused, "Forget that second part that was a dumb question. Why him?" Hadi stared just as fixedly back at him and pointed to the chair.

"Do you see the chair you are sitting in?" He stepped close to John, faces level, "While you are chained to it it means I get to ask the questions." Hadi moved back and slapped John across the face. John didn't call out, didn't flinch, just moved with the hand.

A hunk of bread was tossed into his lap.

"Eat, you must be famished." John looked at the dry wheat bread and knew he couldn't eat it with the way he was tied, he also knew the entire point was to make him look stupid and make him beg.

"I can't-"

"What not hungry?" Hadi stepped forward, but John leaned to bite his hand.

"Not done yet. I can't eat it by bending over, due to the way I am confined. You have to either untie my hands, unless you would like to feed it to me." Sometimes they did and sometimes they took the bread and walked away, today he was lucky. Hadi nodded to the man behind him to feed the prisoner.

"Don't worry, he won't bite." Hadi cooed to the apprehensive guard, and that was how he ate.

John had a feeling Smyth wasn't so lucky. When John finished he could feel his stomach moving around the strange new substance.

It was after the funeral that the John's face was plastered all over the media. "Consulting Detective's Husband DIES in Afghanistan!". Front page news, but Mycroft made sure there was no mention of Andrew anywhere. The poor boy didn't need the media after him, but they followed his Father like hounds to meat.

"Mr. Holmes! How does it feel to lose the only person you cared about? That cared about you?" "Mr. Holmes, will you stop helping the Scotland Yard solve crimes in protest of the government?"

Every time they found him and asked him their invasive questions Lestrade worried that Sherlock would snap and yell deductions at them, which sounded funny, but it would wreck everything. Every time though Sherlock would calmly step forward and state that his name is "Mr. Watson-Holmes and it hurts more than you will ever comprehend." that would be all and then he would just walk away like nothing happened. While all the attention was focused on Sherlock Watson-Holmes, Andrew had to stay with Mycroft so he would not be found by the numerous magazines, news papers, and tabloids.

The distance took it's toll on both of them.

Sherlock hated the empty apartment, once full of two other people.

Andrew hated his Uncle's house. Anthea took him too school, no more tube rides, and brought him right back, no more football. The only solace he got were the rare meetings he was allowed with his Father and the everyday meetings he stole with Mr. Brook, his English tutor, although more along the lines of therapist. Andrew met with Mr. Brook everyday after school until Anthea came to pick him up in that retched black car with the windows tinted darker than should be allowed.

Andrew grew close to Mr. Brook, he reminded Drew of his Dad, always listening to him talk about his Dad or Father or life in general.

That was his highlight, talking to Mr. Brook, and the scattered meetings with his Father.

Today was a good day though, today Father was coming over to have dinner.

Chloe sat across from Andrew at the lunch table, they had gotten close after Carter the Imbecile tried his last attack.

"Well, look who is all smiley today. You get to see your dad tonight?" His smile wavered.

"I get to see my Father tonight." Chloe cursed under her breath.

"I am so sorry, I didn't mean to, they just-"

"Both mean the same to you. I get it. They used to mean the same thing to me too." Andrew smiled and didn't let the dark thoughts take over, for once her won. Chloe smiled back sensing his victory.

"Is your Uncle going to be there?" Andrew had told her about how his Father and his Uncle didn't get along that well. His smile widened.

"Nope." The excitement stilted his hunger so Chloe picked at his plate.

"You know, your Father sounds cool. I would like to meet him one day."

Andrew didn't want that at all, he didn't want her to be deduced, but he would never actually say that, so he settled for shaking his head.

"I don't think you do, he can be a bit of a nightmare."

They laughed as Chloe finished off the last of his food.

"The world thinks you are dead, doctor." John was awoken by that voice. His former friend's voice.

"Yes, you seem to have done a convincing job in killing me." The lights flicked on, blinding John.

"Your husband has moved on, you know. Even went so far as to drop your son off at his Uncle's house and never looked back, leaving him to Mycroft's mercy, or lack there of. Now poor Andrew only has Anthea to keep him company."

"I don't believe that."

Pictures were tossed in his lap. Pictures of Andrew being escorted to Mycroft by Anthea, who was still on her phone.

"No! Sherlock wouldn't!" John's head was reeling. The next picture was of Andrew leaving the morning after, still escorted by the ever present Anthea. The next three were of Andrew sitting at a table eating different meals by himself. He was always alone. There were several more photos all the same, Andrew alone or being escorted by Anthea who was still on her phone.

"I don't believe you or your pictures!" John spat gritted teeth and a rising temper, Sherlock promised to take care of Andrew and Andrew would never allow himself to be handed off like this! These pictures are lies!"

Hadi Harun smirked and left the countless photos spread out in front of John so they could entertain his worst nightmare.

The nightmare that Sherlock had broken his promise and had left Andrew to the cold hands of a heartless Mycroft.

Sherlock couldn't help but to bounce on the balls of his feet a bit as he walked up to the crime scene.

"What's wrong with him?" Anderson was dying to know what was going on in the Consulting Detective's head. Donovan had no idea and no want to have an idea, all she knew was that she hadn't seem him this way since John died. She was also wondering if they should be looking for a body.

"Maybe he finally killed someone." Sherlock disappeared into the house holding the scene and of course being escorted by Lestrade.

"Sherlock, what is going on? You happen to be scaring half the staff." Sherlock ignored him and went straight back to examining the body.

Strangle marks around the neck, nothing else.

"Tell Molly to look for cuts, scrapes, or small holes. He wasn't strangled."

"How on Earth did you know that? He has hand marks on his neck."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took a breath to share the information.

"Look at the marks around his neck. Dark finger marks surrounded by slightly less dark marks. The killer was wearing gloves in hopes of hiding his true hand size." There was a pause where normally John would say some sort of praise, but there was only silence. It hurt them both.

"I get to see Andrew tonight." Sherlock said softly.

What? Wait, he isn't living with you anymore?" Lestrade was shocked, it had been hard for Sherlock to lose John, but to have Andrew taken from him as well.

It was borderline criminal.

"Mycroft's idea." It was not a question.

"To avoid publicity. My choice, Mycroft supported it."

"That's ballocks! He'll be hearing from me." Lestrade gave his orders and left in a huff. Sherlock watched the Detective Inspector closely as walked away to get ready for the night.

He was finally able to see his son.

Andrew wasn't very talkative with Mr. Brook that day and not with lack of trying on the teacher's part. It was just the prospect of seeing his Father for dinner that night kept his talking to a minimum.

"Drew, what's on your mind? You are never this excited when your Uncle comes to get you." Andrew hardly registered the words being spoken to him.

"Father is coming over for dinner tonight. First time in a while!" Mr. Brook raised an eyebrow.

"You don't live with your dad, Father, sorry." Andrew's eyes never left the window waiting for the black car with the just as black windows that would take him to his Father.

"Not anymore, Father and Uncle Mycroft agreed that it would be best for my safety to keep me far from the publicity Father is getting right now."

The car pulled up to the curb and off Andrew went racing out the front door, onto the front steps, throwing himself into the back seat. And there on the other side was Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective and Father Extraordinare.

"Father!" Andrew powered his way into his Father's arms, "I thought I wasn't going to see you until later tonight!"

His Father smiled and pulled his son close, kissing the top of his head.

"I figured you would like the surprise. No cases tonight, my phone is even off." Andrew chuckled and rested his head on his Father's shoulder.

This was the first time in a long time either of them had been truly happy.

Back at school Mr. Brook watched the car pull away from the curb and down the crowded street.

How interesting was it, that Andrew didn't live with his Father after losing his Dad. How unfortunate really. The poor boy is probably all alone in a big house.

Mr. Brook smiled as he packed his papers away.

Maybe things would change and they could live with each once again.

"Mycroft, what the Hell is wrong with you?" Greg yelled over the phone.

"Terribly sorry, you are going to have to be a little bit more specific." Mycroft sat at his desk tucked away in his den, waiting for Sherlock and Andrew to arrive from school.

"You separated Sherlock and Andrew not that long after John's funeral! Why?" Mycroft sighed, he knew he would hear this eventually he had assumed it would have been from Sherlock, but he was too concerned with protecting Andrew to care about the emotional consequences. Never did he think he would here it from Greg.

"Sherlock and I agreed Andrew could not be placed into the hot spot of the media. He is 15 years old and doesn't need reporters in his face everywhere he goes."

Greg let out a sigh of frustration.

"Family, Mycroft, Sherlock had a family and in one move you took the last of it away." Mycroft furled his brow.

"Sherlock doesn't value-"

"Shut up! Don't you dare say that Sherlock doesn't value family. He valued John enough to marry him and values Andrew enough to drop my case to spend an evening with him. I've been calling him non-stop giving him updates, but he hasn't answered once! He's changed, Mycroft, and I have a feeling you are going to see that tonight."

"Are you still coming? We need an officer on the inside of the house."

Mycroft could sense that Greg was shaking his head.

"Yes, I'll be there, but you owe me big time."

"Oh, I'm sure I can think of something." Mycroft smirked as he hung up the phone in time to hear the door open and two lively voices cascade through the empty halls of the house.

Mycroft couldn't help, but to smile a bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking of doing a prologue of before Andrew. What do you think?


	11. Chapter 11

Andrew stared at the now familiar wall in front of him wondering how much longer he would have to stay in this house until he could finally go home. He missed his bed, his flat, and most of all his eccentric Father doing random dangerous experiments in the kitchen and his Father in general; all together he really just hated it here with his uncle, the house was too big, the bed was too soft, and he hated that woman who never took her eyes off her phone.

But now was not the time think of her, or them, it was a time to gaze at the collage that had been growing across his wall like ivy across trees and tresses, since he had gotten there Andrew had been amassing photos that reminded him of home, then when he got bored in the big house that he loathed so much Andrew would run away to his room and tape his precious pictures over the sickeningly cheerful colorful of his uncle's walls, only because they weren't the red and greens he was used back in Baker Street.

Over the months he had been there Andrew had gathered pictures of his Father, of his Dad before deployment, and lots of pictures of them as a happy family, even found some of just his Father and Dad before they had been his parents.

This, this is what he did when he wanted to avoid people, especially the people, or lack there of, in this house and since it was so quiet all the time it was easy to forget that anyone was home. At least Andrew assumed there were people home, pretty sure there was the wait staff down stairs somewhere, but while he reminisced with his almost not even close to being there parents the wait staff did not exist to him.

Only he and his parents were there in the house at this time.

Andrew smiled at his Father and at his Dad, looking at them each in turn wanting to pull them into hugs after so long of not seeing them; It had been a couple weeks since the dinner with his Father and he would never see his Dad again, a thought he regularly pushed out of his mind.

This was just one wall. Andrew turned his head to the next wall over and smiled fondly at the blond haired man and red haired woman plastered over the wall paper.

These were his biological parents, Julie and Mike Webster, the two people he thought would always be there to teach him everything there was to learn in the world, just as they had when he grew up. Andrew's parents had taught him how to walk, how to ride a bike, and how to work with others. There was never a time when he thought they wouldn't be in his life, well sure University, when he grew up enough to get there, but even then his parents would be there to help him move in to his dorm.

It was just that at the end of everyday his parents were always there. Without fail greeting him as he came through the door running from whatever bad day he had had, his mother would always comfort him while at the same time warning him that he can't run from all his problems that eventually he has to face some of the things that are bothering him. Then his dad would come in and take him outside and kick the football around for hours until his mom would call in that dinner was ready, and dinner was of course lasagne, his favorite.

John had been the same way, when Andrew had come home in a huff he was the one to help him work it out and encouraged him to talk with those causing the problem. Sherlock had encouraged ignoring them because they were idiots, but John had always said that communication skills were necessary by people on a "normal spectrum". "Normal Spectrum" was what he always had said, but even after always saying that he still married and loved the man that was so far of the "normal spectrum" he solved crimes for free and by God John had thought of Sherlock until the moment he died of that Andrew was sure. He was also pretty sure that John had thought of him, kind hearted John never forgot anyone important to him.

Andrew was also sure that biological his parents had thought of him when they died, knowing his mom she thought about everyone, but herself. The days after the incident all Andrew could agonize over were what thoughts were racing through his parents heads as they died because as he had found out it had taken them at least ten minutes to pass on. Knowing his parents they thought of him they always thought of him. And he felt like a terrible son for thinking his parents thought of anything else.

Looking at the pictures of all his parents made him remember every memory he ever with them, good and not so good. The not so good times were when he copped an attitude, then got yelled at, which only made him cop an attitude even more.

The good times with his Mom and Dad were memories to cherish for a lifetime. Family vacations to the continent usually to Spain since his mom was fluent in Spanish, though, Andrew spoke very little himself he spoke enough to get by, and more importantly get food. Mostly they stayed in Great Britain and Ireland. Traveling with his parents was amazing, if they had the time they would take the long ferry ride all the way to Bilbao. It was in these hours on their annual family vacation that they reconnected as a unit and, of course, covered more Spanish phrases she thought would be helpful to them as they traveled through a country so different than their own. Andrew liked seeing the new places, hearing the words so different from his own, and most of all spending the time with his parents.

Time with his Dad was regular since he worked at the clinic close by, but time with his Father was a little less set in stone since he was usually off solving crimes, though he was made to come home at times so the three of them could spend time together as a family. There was a lot of that especially in the last month before his Dad's deployment. With his Father's unscheduled hours of crime solving awesomeness, as Andrew liked to call it when he had first warmed up to them, vacations were not something the couple was really accustomed to, but once Andrew started talking about and showing pictures for the ones he went on with his first parents there was no way that John and Sherlock could say no.

So here on the wall were all the pictures from all the vacations he took, with family he no longer has.

And in the evening when Andrew has finished his homework this is where he comes to be with those he can't actually be with, to remember those who had taught him so much and had so much left to teach him.

It was some nights as these that the loneliness gets too much. The need to be wrapped in a giant hug from his mom, dad, Dad, or Father was so over bearing he couldn't take being stuck at "Uncle" Mycroft's house another second longer.

But it was in the quiet that he could talk to his parents and tonight he did.

"Hi, mom. Hey, dad. How how are you? How is John? Can you tell him I miss him? Sherlock misses him, too." Andrew laid himself down on his bed preparing himself for a very long one-sided conversation with the smiling faces on the wall.

"I miss you all so much."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I finally got this chapter written! Also, I opened a Fictionpress account so if you like what I do here and want to read more go check me out. I am under the same name Little Moffat. I'm also looking for a beta for it


	12. Chapter 12

The pictures of Andrew had migrated. All the pictures of his son alone in that big house had moved from the dirt covered floor to the dust covered walls, but now it wasn't just Andrew in every frame that was haunting John's every waking moment. It was Sherlock, too. Sherlock now had his own growing stash of pictures.

Just him in his frames.

Just Andrew in his frames.

Just John in his cave.

"Can't you see what I've been trying to tell you, John? Now, please, answer my question and save yourself the heartache of seeing all this." John knew the deal, but he what he didn't know is what they were going to do with what they learned from him.

"Hadi, you know that I will never answer that question, nor anything you ask me." John spit out, though he was the one tied to the chair and Hadi was the one who could walk out whenever he wanted.

Hadi Harun chuckled as he pulled another photo out of the manila envelop of Andrew sitting in his room at Mycroft's crying at a wall of photos, just as John was.

"No. NO!" John strained against the ropes keeping him tied fast to the chair he loathed so much. He couldn't take this, he couldn't take his son crying in a room that was not his own while thinking his Dad was dead. He needed to get home, not John, Andrew. Andrew needed to get home to his Father.

"Answer my question, John, and my employer will get your son to his dad as-"

"I am his Dad." John was livid with Hadi, with Mycroft, with Sherlock, with anyone. Why would anyone let this happen to a poor boy who had just lost his Dad.

"My apologies, answer my question, John, and my employer will get you son back to his Father tomorrow." John's head was bowed, but when he brought his eyes up to meet Hadi's there was nothing weak about his features, if his hands weren't tied his captor would have been dead.

"How do I know you are telling the truth?" His words were measured, careful, and threatening. And after spending so much time with Sherlock John could see the fear in Hadi's eyes even though he did a spectacular job hiding it from his body language.

"My employer always makes good on his promises, so if you no longer want a sobbing son, I suggest you make good on your end, too." John pursed lips in concentration as he tried to come to a decision, "John, I don't have all day." He moved to leave.

"Wait! Promise me you will get my son to his Father tomorrow and I will answer your question. Just that ONE question." John called to Hadi's back, but finished as he turned around.

"Very well, answer, now."

"No, you are so good at pictures. I want photographic proof that Andrew is with Sherlock before I tell you anything."

"Fine." Hadi left to go have a chat with his mysterious employer to inform him that their captive had broken, they were getting their information.

\------------------------------

Sherlock burst through the door of his brother's office ignoring the bothered look the official gave him as he threw himself into the chair opposite the intricately carved wooden desk.

"I miss him." Was all he said to his brother.

"I assume you would, I have been informed that you value your-it's gone." Mycroft's face drained of color as he turned his attention away from his paper work and focused fully on the computer to his right. Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked at the equally intricate paintings around him, just waiting for his brother to explain what cause his mini panic attack.

"What's gone? Those last three pounds you have been working on, oh I doubt it."

"Shut up a moment, Sherlock! I am talking about every article ever written about you and John! All of them. Every single one." Both men were quiet as Sherlock processed the information.

"What? How did that happen?" Sherlock leapt off the chair and invaded his brother's personal space as his eyes demanded to see what his ears refused to believe, "We have been trying for weeks to get them to take down all those articles and failed. How did this happen?"

"No way good." Mycroft commented as he scrolled through nothing.

"This means Andrew can come home." Sherlock's face was lit up with hope as he looked triumphantly at his brother.

Mycroft snorted, "No it doesn't." Sherlock's hopeful gaze morphed into a glare.

"Oh, and why not?"

"Sherlock, look at this! We have been trying for weeks to take down these articles and failed, us! So who did this? Someone powerful, and with you, probably someone bad. Next thought, why. Why take down these articles, what do they gain?" There was a pause, "Think, Sherlock."

"Odds are we need to give them what they want, Mycroft. You said it yourself Andrew could never live with me while the press was hounding me, but now that they aren't he is fit to come home." Mycroft pursed his lips in distaste.

"Are we giving them what they want or are we ignoring the situation and giving you what you want?" The government leaned back and steeped his fingers.

"I am getting him whether you like it or not, we had an agreement, Mycroft, Andrew would stay with you so long as the press was about me. Well, as you can plainly see the press is no longer about me! I am collecting my son and there is nothing you can do to stop me."

"There are many things I can do to stop you, Sherlock, you and I both know that." Sherlock rolled his eyes yet again, after living with Mycroft he had become the master of it.

"You saw what happened after you tried to separate me from John, just try to separate me from Andrew and I promise to be much much worse."

During the duration of this conversation the color had been returning to Mycroft's face, but at the mention of those incidents the color was once again gone from his cheeks.

"I'll send a car to pick up his things and take him to Baker Street."

"His home."


	13. Chapter 13

Thoughts pressed at his head more than John wanted them too, he wanted to show Hadi that he stood firm by his belief that Sherlock had in no way shape of form left their son to the unable hands of Mycroft's less than desired embrace, but there it was. Evidence, splattered all over the walls in the form of pictures. All kinds of photographic evidence clearly displaying that Sherlock had betrayed John's trust and abandoned Andrew, even after John had made him swear to take care of Andrew.

And now even worse was that John had to betray Sherlock's trust to get Andrew home again, home to his Father and Mrs. Hudson. So yes, John would say that he blamed Sherlock now.

This was all Sherlock's fault and John was going to make sure he knew it.

\-----------------------------------------------------------

Andrew leaned back into his perch, back brushing against the rough bark of the tree. Carter might of had something to do with the fact that he was in a tree, but that was left for debate. So, here he was, like a bird, up in a tree reading a book, because his was waiting for his Uncle to pick him up. Normally, Andrew spent time with Mr. Brook, but Carter the Imbecile had gotten to him before Andrew could get to Mr. Brook's room. Which was, of course, just a great fun time for them both. Carter got his entertainment from trying to catch Andrew and Andrew got no entertainment out it what so ever, but that didn't seem to matter.

So to cut a very long and very tiring story short, Andrew was in his tree enjoying how the sun warmed his face and the breeze seemed to dance through the leaves. Up there the thick London air seemed to thin and clean itself out. He stretched out on his thick branch, setting down his book to take a look around the school yard and red brick school building, he might save Carter the effort next time and climb up here himself. From his high position he could see Chloe walk towards him.

"Hello up there!" Chloe called to the bird boy without a nest, "What drove you to such high measure?" Andrew chuckled.

"I'll give you one guess." Chloe raised an eyebrow and nodded, thinking that she should have known better.

"Mr. Brooks is looking for you, by the way, he said that he wanted to make sure you were okay and wanted to know if you were going home soon." Andrew nodded and tossed his backpack onto the dirt surrounding the tree, Chloe grabbed it out of his way before he jumped out of the tree itself.

"Thanks. Shall we?" Andrew motioned towards the school and as soon as he was dusted off they were off.

"Mr. Watson-Holmes, I was wondering if I was going to see you today?" Mr. Brook sat at his desk with a pile of papers to his left that looked as thought they were in need of grading.

"Are you sure you have time for me today, Mr. Brook?" The teacher chuckled putting his pen down.

"For you, Andrew, I have all the time in the world. Thank you, Chloe, for getting him for me." Mr. Brook spared a glance for Chloe, but quickly returned his attention to Andrew, "That will be all."

"No problem, Mr. Brook, you guys have a nice chat." Chloe left, smiling at Andrew as she did, she knew how much he enjoyed talking to the English teacher and she was glad she could help.

"Andrew, how are you? Are you enjoying the time at your uncle's house?" Mr. Brook knit his fingers while the student across from him gave him a look, before chuckling and shaking his head.

"I'm fine, but my uncle's house couldn't get more boring unless he just didn't come home, oh wait, he doesn't." He leaned back in his desk looking out the window, almost as if his uncle could hear him from there.

"I was hoping that over time that would change, but I see that hasn't. Is there any chance that you will be going home soon?" The English teacher furled his brow in worry and concern for his lonesome student, "Can you take home a friend? I'm sure Chloe would love to meet your Father or your uncle, where ever you are staying."

Andrew looked at his hands, clasping them until they turned white. Just sitting in silence.

"Father and uncle say I can't come home until the media is done following him and camping outside Baker Street. They don't want me to be the focus, they don't want the paparazzi to know I exist. Safety, you know."

"I think the real harm here is you being alone at your uncle's house." Mr. Brook said seriously, resting his head gently on his fingers, "You could have gone to a friend's house or down stairs to your land lady's house? Anywhere, but your uncle's cold castle."

"I suppose, but my uncle has the best security there my Father knew I was safe." Andrew said determinedly, "It is hard, but the best part will be when this is over and I can see him again."

"I understand that, but the thing that confuses me is that," Mr. Brook stood up and started erasing the board, leaving Andrew hanging in suspense, "if your uncle is so good at security then couldn't he have made any house you went to as secure as his own?"

There was a honking outside dragging Andrew's attention away from the teacher at the board.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I have to go." Andrew was confused as he ran out the door to the cursed black car waiting for him, Chloe met him by the front door of the school

"Hey, you okay?" Her eyes crinkled in concern, "What's up?" Andrew kept walking determinedly towards the car, "Andrew, stop!" And he did. "What happened in there? Usually your talks with Mr. Brook go so well." Her brow furled as she tried to read his face, but he kept his emotions sealed away and face blank.

"It was fine, Chloe."

"You are lying to me, Andrew." He sighed looking at the car again gauging how much time until Anthea got out of the car to come retrieve him, like a handler, maybe Mr. Brooks was right.

"I know. I just don't want to talk about it. It's just that," He let out another sigh, "he said something and I don't know what to think about it." He let his head hang.

The car honked again this time the door opened and Anthea gracefully climbed out keeping her eyes on her phone, smirk on her lips.

"Mr. Brook said that my uncle could have sent me anywhere and made that safe I didn't have to be alone and miserable all this time." Andrew met Chloe's eyes for the first time during that conversation, "The worst thing is, I believe him. I shouldn't my Father wants what's best for me and I know that-"

There was a hand on his shoulder, Anthea's eyes were no longer on her phone.

"It's time to go, Mr. Watson-Holmes, your uncle is waiting on you in the car." Her voice wasn't harsh, but it wasn't exactly nice either.

"I'd rather walk thank you. Chloe and I are having a lovely conversation."

"I'm sorry, sir, that's not an option." Chloe fought down a giggle at "sir", "Let's go." Anthea started leading him towards the car, but after starting to talk to Chloe Andrew was hesitant to leave until the conversation was finished.

"Andrew!" The pair paused at the door of the car, "He's wrong! Don't believe him." Chloe smiled reassuringly, but she could see the doubt in his eyes planted there by Mr. Brook.

Andrew Watson-Holmes climbed into the back of the car across from his Uncle Mycroft and Uncle Greg, who were facing him.

"Hey, Drew, how was your day?" No need to say that it was Uncle Greg who was talking.

"Fine." Andrew kept to his side of the car, avoiding eye contact with his Uncle Mycroft.

"Who was your friend out there? She seemed nice." Uncle Greg smiled kindly as he tried to make conversation, but honestly he was done with talking today.

"I'd rather not say, I would hate for her family to be stalked." The Detective Inspector laughed.

Uncle Mycroft was taking after Anthea in that his eyes were glued to the lap top on his legs, eyes occasionally darting to to Uncle Greg, gross. Andre could read everything and was disturbed by what he found there, Uncle Greg could do better.

"Well, Andrew, we have a surprise for you," Greg smiled proudly leaning forward in his seat, "since the number of cameras following your Father have gone down you can go home!" Uncle Greg wore a big grin, as if he had just announced he had just won the lottery.

Andrew would have been wearing the same smile if he had been told this before his conversation with Mr. Brook, but now that there was that inkling of doubt wondering around up in his head he had to plaster some five watt smile to please Uncle Greg and throw in a crinkling around the eyes to fool Uncle Mycroft. One thing was for sure though, this smile was not genuine.

\-------------------------------------------------------

He was left with his thoughts festering, rage boiling, and his shame crippling his soul for days on end. He was asked question after question, but all they ever got were bitten off responses spat out of spite. Those were when the pictures were pulled out and posted on the cave wall to taunt John to what he couldn't change, couldn't help, there was nothing he could do from here, but every part of John wanted to help, reach out, to council Andrew. Anything.

John didn't know how long he was kept there with this hatred that once was love burning inside him.

But eventually Hadi Harun came back with no envelop, just an evil smirk on his lips.

"We have good news for you, Captain Watson-Holmes," Hadi came within range of John, but it hardly mattered since his hands were still tied to the arms of the chair, "You're going home."


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock sat primly at his desk looking over case files sent over by DI Lestrade when his phone went off, he hated being interrupted when he was working, but if it was the DI with more information then he was going to take the call. The Consulting Detective pulled out his mobile and looked at the unfamiliar number, setting it on the table to ring until the person on the other end hung up, which they did. He smirked while getting back to work, what he did not expect was for the strange number to call back, this time he answered.

"Shelock Watson-Holmes, what?" He hated being disturbed when he was working and twice was just two times too many.

"Hello, Mr. Watson-Holmes, I am a nurse at St. Barts and we have reason to believe that your husband, John Watson-Holmes, is here in our care." Her tone was clipped and careful, probably one of the nurses that usually saw him flitting about the hospital. But rather than ripping her to pieces or deducing her over the phone like he usually would have, Sherlock just sat there stunned. The words the nameless nurse spoke cut deep into Sherlock's heart, which only gave proof that he had one, but it was impossible he had to bury his husband already and was not going to allow his hopes to be gotten up by some nurse at the hospital.

"I think you are mistaken," His voice was barely above a whisper when he responded after what seemed an eternity of silence, "my husband was killed in action." Sherlock hung up and let his eyes fall shut. His head then fell to the table making a nice heavy thudding sound that matched the heavy weight in his heart.

There was another ringing sound breaking the silence of the flat, it was the land line that John had insisted they get in case anyone needed anything for Andrew. Grumbling Sherlock dragged himself out of his moping to answer the phone that, recently, hardly ever rang.

"Watson-Holmes residence." Just like John had taught him when they had gotten it.

"Sherlock? What are you still doing at home?!" Molly was on the other line sounding as though she was about to loose her mind. His ears perked up at her tone. Was there a development in the case?

"I'm waiting on Andrew, he's coming home. Why what's happened?" Sherlock was excited Christmas, he thought, was going to come early!

"Mycroft is letting him come home! Oh my God! I'll call Greg! You get here! NOW! It's John." Molly hung up leaving Sherlock in a puddle of cold water.

"But he's dead."

\-----------------------------------------------------------

Andrew stared out the window watching the buildings go by, just like always, any other day any other time he would have been ecstatic to home, but not today. He was pulled out of his musings by Uncle Greg's ringing phone.

"Hey, Molly." He smiled into the receiver listening to words that Andrew couldn't even guess at, "Molly," The tone changed completely now, "you cannot be making any of this up. Do you hear me? If you are making any of this up not only will you lose your job, but I cannot begin to guess what he will do to you." Uncle Greg's smile dropped into Detective Inspector Lestrade's focused face, the one he only used when he was on a case and never used when he was around Andrew.

DI Lestrade turned in his seat taping on the glass to get the driver's attention, eventually he got it.

"Take us to St. Barts." Was all he said and was quiet the rest of the way even though Andrew was insistent on getting answers, but none were gotten.

When they got to the hospital DI Lestrade pushed his way out of the car leaving Andrew and Uncle Mycroft to trail in his wake.

"Greg! What's going on?!" Uncle Mycroft hadn't even attempted to get information out of the DI when they were in the car, but now that he was full out running in to the hospital it now seemed more urgent. What made Andrew feel better was that his uncle wasn't getting any more answers than he had gotten.

But that still left them at nothing- and, oh God, it was Father! Something had happened to Father while Andrew had been away and now he was being hospitalized! Andrew might still be on the fence about how his situation was handled, but his Father, his last parent, was in the hospital and Uncle Greg was making it seem as though it was life or death! Maybe the orphanage would have been less stressful? Rather than this constant running and worrying about his parents, but even now as DI Lestrade was having someone page after Aunt Molly Andrew wouldn't have traded it for the world.

Instead of taking the elevator like normal people they ran up three flights of stairs to get there in the fastest time, then with the DI double checking the room for the fourth time they took off down the hall to room 353.

That's where Uncle Greg stopped, after all that running and panicking he stopped frozen on the spot almost unsure of how to proceed with what lies ahead. Uncle Mycroft stepped forward and whispered softly in his ear, but all words were lost on the still statue, he needed a blanket for trauma right about now.

Eventually, he knocked himself out of it and looked right at Andrew who was scared and confused and was no longer very fond of hospitals. Uncle Greg returned to DI Lestrade, and he seemed to realize what this must look like to Andrew, with this new realization his entire demeanor change comfort Andrew.

"Andrew, I know what you must be thinking and I know that you must be scared, but it's okay, I promise. Your Father is fine, he should actually be on his way over now. Before you go in I want you to be gentle because he has come a long way to see you and has gone through quite a bit." Uncle Greg smiled at him lovingly and lead him into the hospital room to see the man behind the curtain.

\-------------------------------------------------------

"It's John."

Sherlock raced around the flat grabbing his coat, but forgetting his scarf. Going back for his scarf, then forgetting his phone. Grabbing his phone, then forgetting his coat!

He was a frazzled mess!

"It's John."

Sherlock stood in the middle of the flat breathing heavily trying to grab things, trying to look presentable, and failing at everything because to him none of it made any sense!

"Calm yourself." How was he suppose to that? According to Molly his husband had just come back from the DEAD!, "Gah!" Sherlock looked over to the couch where his phone lay on top of his scarf on top of his coat. Everything was together.

"It's John."

Almost everything was together John wasn't home yet and Andrew was still in Mycroft's clutches, though presumably they had headed to the hospital as well. Sherlock needed to go!

He ran out not explaining anything to Mrs. Hudson other than they might have company soon, but even that was a stretch of his attention now, all of his brain power was focused on getting to St. Barts, getting to John, and waiting for Andrew.

"It's John."

Sherlock hailed a cab and waited patiently in the back completely ignoring the driver's questions as to whether or not he was having a nice day.

"Is this your first?" That caught his attention.

"I'm sorry what?" Sherlock was caught off guard his first of what, husband coming back from the dead, he really hoped this didn't happen to too many people, "My first what?"

"Your first baby, of course! I've been driving 20 years and I swear that all you first time fathers look the same." The old man chuckled, "Your wife going into labor now? Sorry I can't do anything about traffic."

Sherlock furled his brow and shook his head.

"I'm not expecting, I don't have a wife, but it is still imperative that I get to Barts as quickly as possible. My husband who I thought was killed in action is somehow alive and under observation and my son is there with his terrible uncle."

"Oh, I see I was wrong on all accounts I am terribly sorry, sir." There was a pause as they pulled up to St. Barts, Molly waiting for him at the front door, "So, you are Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

That made Sherlock pause as he had paid and was getting out of the car, but he looked at the cabby dead in the eyes, through the rear view mirror.

"No, my name is Sherlock Watson-Holmes, I have lost what you might understand, only I have a chance to get them back." Sherlock let his eyes fall to old framed picture of young children though the picture was at least as old as the kids were, "Good day."

Sherlock climbed out to greet an anxious Molly and to lay his weary eyes on the man he committed himself to.

"Molly, is Andrew okay?" Molly nodded,"Is John okay?" Now he was breathless with anticipation.

They had taken the elevator up to the third floor. Down the hallway to room 353.

Molly stood to the side as Sherlock stood unsure in front of the door.

"Sherlock," Molly whispered, "go in! He is going to be happy to see you. He has waited just as long as you and probably wants to see you more. So get in there or I will push you!"

Sherlock gave her a thankful smile and pushed open the door to see Andrew laying in the hospital bed next to an unconscious John.

"Oh God, John." Sherlock rushed to the bed to find them both fast asleep.


	15. Chapter 15

Seeing his Dad in the hospital bed was not entirely unusual. Seeing his Dad in the hospital bed hooked up to so many wires and tubes and machines that make noise while his Dad just lay there quietly not moving or talking or joking about being part robot was entirely unusual. Andrew's Father would say that Dad would be fine, that all people get hurt, but not all were out of the fight for long; but he didn't want to think about his Father right now. He wanted to think about his Dad and how he had managed to get to St. Barts, but not think about how he had gotten to St. Barts since the story would probably involve a good deal of pain. Andrew spent so long thinking and not thinking about this that he hadn't noticed that he had been standing just inside the door for a solid minute. that he was wasting time by the door when he could be hugging his Dad, something he never thought he would be able to do again.

Slowly Andrew stepped closer to the bed, trying to keep his breathing even, and his nerves down; he couldn't help but to equate this to horror movies and that his Dad would suddenly jerk awake just to scare him. Dad would do that, but hopefully not now, not with everything so strange and odd. Eventually he got to the edge of the bed and there he could see what had happened to his Dad in excruciating detail. His lips were chapped, skin looked pale and raw, hair was still a bit dirty, wrists were an angry red colour, and he was gaunt. All this combined made Andrew start tearing up. Once a sob escaped as well he couldn't have cared less who saw him. His Dad was alive, and that was all that mattered.

"Andrew?" Dad's voice rasped, thick with sleep and dehydration, "Oh, Andrew." Cautiously, Andrew looked again at his Dad's face and released another sob when he saw him smiling softly.

"Dad, I didn't think I was going to see you again." Andrew sniffled in attempts to pull himself together, "I was so worried about you." It didn't work, Andrew barely got the words out before he started sobbing into his Dad's hospital sheets.

"Hush Andrew, look at me," reluctantly he did, "I'm okay. I'm alive, and I will be here for you no matter what, I promise." Dad's comforting words only brought more tears to Andrew's eyes, more tears of relief.

"I missed you. I missed you so much. I had to stay with Uncle Mycroft 'cause the paparazzi kept following Father. Uncle wanted me to be safe." Andrew wiped angrily at his eyes to get rid of all the tears he had shed.

"Well, you won't be staying there anymore. Now that I'm home you won't be going to your Uncle's house again, except on  _very_  special occasions." Dad smiled at Andrew again, taking in the wonder that he was back in London and back with his son, "Now, climb up here with me and tell me how you have been since your last letter, okay?"

Andrew wanted nothing more in the world.

* * *

When Sherlock saw Andrew and John curled up on the hospital bed asleep, he could have passed out from happiness. Seeing his son again was enough to break heart, but add John to the mix and Sherlock would have happily died right in that moment. Well, not happily since he hadn't yet been able to speak to John, or hold hm, or touch him even; it was all just over exaggerated sentiment anyway. With measured steps Sherlock made it to the edge of the bed before collapsing in to the visitor's chair. Gingerly he held John's hand, it was just as strong as ever, though his skin was wafer thin and sickly yellow, and that pesky tremor was back. None of this mattered to Sherlock, just that John was breathing was enough. Sherlock didn't want to wake John, but he had to see his husband awake.

"John," Sherlock breathed, gently squeezing John's hand, "John, please wake up."

Slowly John opened his eyes, looking slightly disoriented, but for Sherlock seeing his husband's eyes was more than sufficient to send him crying.

"Oh, Sherlock, come here," John rasped softly pulling Sherlock onto the bed with him and Andrew. Surprisingly Andrew didn't wake at the shifting. Sherlock took his spot and buried his face in the crook of John's neck.

"I thought you were dead. I thought I would never see you again." Sherlock sobbed out quietly. John could feel the tears plopping onto his skin as he held his husband and his son close.

"You know it takes more than a bomb to kill me, we've lived through one of those already." John smiled softly into Sherlock's hair, breathing in the familiar soap.

"I know, I know," He whispered back, "but having some stranger in uniform tell me that you were dead, only your dog tags survived. Then burying an empty casket-"

"Hush now. I'm here and I'm not leaving again," Sherlock could feel John pausing, "but we need to talk about what happened while I was gone."

"John, now is not the time-"

"Sherlock, you promised me you would-"

"Look after Andrew and I did, regrettably I couldn't take care of him at Baker street with all those bloody photographers. Staying at Mycroft's was the worst way I could look after him and it hurt both of us," Sherlock shifted to look John in the eyes, "Please know that had I come up with any other option I would have taken it and  _never_  would have parted with him. It was torture for me to be without him and it was torture for him to be alone all the time. John, please forgive me."

Both men dropped silent as Andrew began to stir, John couldn't help but compare this to the times the three of them would curl up together on the couch covered with blankets. Judging by Sherlock's expression he was picturing the same thing, John squeezed his arm softly to get his attention.

"We'll talk more about this later. Let's just get home, all of us, together." John gave Sherlock a half smile and waited for Andrew to wake fully.

"Dad, Father? When did you get here?" Andrew squinted past his sleep to see clearly, "How long was I asleep?" His parents smiled at him pulling him closer into their embrace.

"As long as you needed. Since your brain is an adolescent brain and needs the most amount of sleep in order to develop properly, mostly the Frontal Lobe and the Limbic System." Sherlock answered in a way he thought was helpful, but by the looks of his husband and son it was just amusing, "What? He asked."

"Time, love, how long he was asleep in measurements of time," John's cracked lips broke into a wide humorous grin, "Only a couple hours, Drew."

"Oh, good, means I still have time to do things before-wait, where am I sleeping tonight? Am I still going home?" Andrew sat straight up in his excitement only to droop slightly, "Or since Dad is back do I have to go back to Uncle Mycroft's for my  _safety_?" John saw Sherlock's shame in his eyes, though not on his face where their son could see it.

"Andrew, you are going to Baker Street with your Father. I'll be here since, understandably, they want to keep me under observation. I'll be home soon, so don't worry either of you." John pulled them close again, though Sherlock could feel the strain is was on his muscles, there was a slight wavering to them, "Until then both of you are more than welcome to visit me here, in my cell."

"Now, John, I remember hearing someone say that hospitals are not prisons but places of healing." Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow getting Andrew to go along with it.

"Yeah Dad, isn't that what you say  _every time_  Father complains about being in the hospital? 'Sherlock, these people are here to help you, so stop complaining and go with it.'" Andrew tried his best impersonation of his Dad, but was so far off all three of them burst into hysterics and John into a coughing fit. The violent coughing sent Sherlock and Andrew jumping off the bed in pursuit of the water on the bedside table that had been pushed aside for the family dog pile. Andrew got to it first and made it back to his Dad's side just as the coughs were subsiding, "Here Dad, there's a straw you can use."

The two of them gathered close to John as he gently sipped the water, once he was done he chuckled softly at both the concerned faces.

"That is what you get for making fun of me," When their looks of alarm and worry didn't go away, "I am fine. Coughing is to be expected when I've been locked away for so long. Besides both of you should know that doctors make the absolutely worst patients. Now, how about you two go home and get some rest and visit me again tomorrow." Neither looked convinced or pleased with being told to leave. It was that moment that Mycroft and Lestrade came in, hoping the family had had enough time together to please them until later.

"This is a touching scene, but dear brother, I need to speak with John alone, regrettably this includes you as well Andrew." Mycroft stood a few feet from the family fingers neatly laced over his umbrella handle, while Lestrade stood casually next to him.

"It should only take a few moments today, we aren't supposed to extend your energy today. We just need to know what happened and we figured that it's not something Andrew should hear, and Sherlock would just get unrestrainedly violent." Lestrade tried to smooth things over for them, "It will only take a few minutes then you can come right back in if you would like."

Sherlock's face crinkled in disgust while Andrew looked angrily at his Uncles, nothing was being smoothed over; if anything Lestrade's implication made them both less likely to leave the room. John pulled his family closer kissing both of their cheeks then releasing his grasp of them. Shocked and silent they got the message to wait outside, wordlessly they left preparing to complain when they got back in the room.

"Andrew is so much like us now it's surprising he isn't actually related to us. He still sometimes wakes up remembering that night, it was becoming nonexistent, but I have a bad feeling that they are going to become more frequent or have been more frequent since I've been gone, dead. What do you need to know?" John moved his heavy gaze from the door to his brother-in-law and close friend.

"I'm sorry John, that this happened, but what happened?" Greg took the visitor's chair next to the bed, Mycroft remained standing pristinely shoulders back face neutral.

"We were out for regular trip around the base searching for IEDs and enemies, we were done, we were going back to base. Hadi Harun was there to escort us back, we were stopping at a village, I think. We hadn't gotten to far when the Jeeps behind mine exploded, we thought there were delayed IEDs, but then our Jeep got attacked by Hadi's men. Smyth, oh God, Smyth is still there! Unless they've killed him, but Smyth might still be alive, but captive. We were taken to caves, couldn't have been too far from where we were attacked. Then one day Hadi came and said I was being sent home. I answered only one question, got asked only one question. Saw hundreds of photos of Andrew alone, Mycroft you will have to do a great deal to make up for that."

"Thank you, John, that's all for now. We'll send Sherlock and Andrew back in." Greg stood to leave, shooting cautious glances at Mycroft, since he had been known to blindly defend himself even when he was wrong.

"No, tell them I fell asleep half way through explaining things and that they should go home. Andrew needs to be home and Sherlock needs to be with him. It's going to be hard trying to patch my family back together after this. Andrew doesn't trust Sherlock since Sherlock sent him to your house, Mycroft, and Sherlock is drowning in guilt and self-loathing because he sent Andrew to your house. I'm not stupid, I know it was your idea to take him. I want to know why." John bit out every word flinging each syllable at the eldest Holmes brother so he might understand even a fraction of John's actual rage.

"I did what I thought was best for your son. It wasn't safe for him to be plastered all over the news and tabloids, you and Sherlock has far too many enemies for that." Unmoved Mycroft replied with his usual lofty tone and passive face, "I got no joy out of it if that's what you were wondering. There was no other way."

"You grew up with both parents, that's easy for you to say," John ground out, "You know what else is easy to say? That I would have done things better had I been here; and that is exactly what Andrew is going to say now that I'm back. Andrew is going to look at Sherlock and say that Dad could have done better, because he needs someone to blame, and Sherlock is there, not you."

"John-"

"Leave, and make sure my son gets home with his Father, Baker Street if you need me to be more specific." Mycroft wanted to continue their conversation, but Greg grabbed his arm pulling him out the door. Greg was good at follow orders, and in this moment he was going to make sure Mycroft was too. The two of them stepped out of the room to the two waiting Watson-Holmes, both expectantly stood ready to go back in.

"I'm sorry he fell asleep while trying to answer, so we are going to take you two home." Sherlock moved to speak, but Lestrade gave him a harsh look, "Look Sherlock, you are going to practically live at his bedside until his release so might as well spend at least one night at home. Besides Andrew can't camp out here like you can spend time with your son and both of you can come back tomorrow."

Fuming with silently both the Watson-Holmes boys followed Lestrade to the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for putting this on hold


End file.
